


Know the Water's Sweet but Blood is Thicker

by ThebanSacredBand



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode 4: Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, Gen, Jaskier and Calanthe are siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: Jaskier looks around the Cintran grand hall as the guards let him and Geralt in. It has been around fifteen years since he was last here, and it has barely changed at all. The people have, and so have the fashions, but the décor is just as drab as he remembers.He never liked this place.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach, Duny/Pavetta (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 181





	1. Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hey Brother by Avicii

Jaskier looks around the Cintran grand hall as the guards let him and Geralt in. It has been around fifteen years since he was last here, and it has barely changed at all. The people have, and so have the fashions, but the décor is just as drab as he remembers.

He never liked this place.

Still, an invitation to play at the engagement feast of the heir to the throne of Cintra is not an opportunity that a simple bard such as himself could turn down. And so here he is. Back in the city he had once called home.

Not all the people have changed, though, apparently. Because near the entrance is standing the druid Mousesack, along with the rest of the Skelligan delegation. He looks older, but is still immediately recognisable, in spite of the fact that, as far as Jaskier can remember, he only met the man once. As Jaskier and Geralt get closer, the druid’s widen in recognition, and he spreads his arms in greetings.

Jaskier is surprised that Mousesack recognises him. He had still been a child when they last met, after all. He had still been Julian. Jaskier feels a sudden urge to tell the man everything that he has been up to, all that he has become. Because, in a way, those things were only possible because of Mousesack. In fact, the fact that Jaskier is standing here today could be said to be due to the druid’s actions. Both here in the ‘in-the-Cintran-court’ sense, and here in the ‘not-dead’ sense.

But it is Geralt’s name that Mousesack calls, it is the Witcher who is drawn into a loose embrace. In spite of the fact he wasn’t expecting to be recognised, Jaskier can’t help but be disappointed.

He only half-listens to their conversation, instead looking around more. The decoration has changed a little, after all. There are more suits of armour and mounted swords than there were before. Not really surprising, knowing Calanthe.

His attention is snapped back to conversation happening in front of him when Mousesack asks: “Why are you dressed like a sad silk-trader?” Jaskier almost gasps at the insinuation. He thinks that the outfit he picked out for Geralt is rather dashing, after all.

As Geralt tends to do, he doesn’t answer the druid’s question with a word but, rather with a look, turning to face Jaskier and raising his eyebrows at him. Rude. So _maybe_ Geralt had said that he would stand out in a bad way if he went to court dressed like this, but he didn’t have to attempt to rub it in when _one_ other person had commented on it. And a man who was a responsible adult when Jaskier was still a child, no less! What would Mousesack know about fashion!

Mousesack follows Geralt’s gaze to look at Jaskier too, and he seems to do a double-take, frown lines appearing between his eyes. “Forgive me, but I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

He may have _just_ been excited at the prospect of talking to Mousesack again, but faced with a twinge of recognition the reality of the situation comes crashing down on Jaskier. The reality of the fact that if _Mousesack_ of all people, a visiting druid, one who he had met the grand total of once in his life, might remember him... maybe returning to Cintra was not his greatest plan. If he was recognised he could be in a _lot_ of trouble. _So_ much trouble. Calanthe-might-actually-kill-him trouble.

He plasters on a broad smile and flourishes dramatically to hide his sudden panic. He’s sure that Geralt can tell his emotions, but he trusts the Witcher not to comment on it. “I’m Jaskier, the bard. You _must_ have heard my great epic songs about the adventures of the White Wolf spreading across the continent.”

Mousesack fixes him with an unimpressed look, but at least he no longer seems intent on working out where he has seen Jaskier before.

Jaskier hurries over to join the band before that changes.

As he tunes his lute, he glances up at the high table. The queen isn’t there yet, but the princess Pavetta is. Jaskier hasn’t seen her since soon after she was born; there would be no chance of her recognising him. He takes the time to look at her properly. She inherited her hair from her father, but her face is the spitting image of her mother’s at that age.

Jaskier suspects that it was Pavetta’s idea to invite him, unless Calanthe’s taste in music has changed excessively in the past fifteen years. He doubts it, considering what he has heard about her on his travels. He always keeps an ear out for stories about the lioness of Cintra.

It is not long after he has that thought that the queen herself walks in, still in bloodied armour. Well, Calanthe always did like to make an entrance.

She calls for music, and Jaskier steps forwards with a low bow, though she isn’t even looking his way. And he’s... maybe he should be trying to keep a low profile, but he’s hardly going to return to Cintra after fifteen years and have Calanthe not even _look_ at him. He never did have much self-preservation.

So he plucks out the first few notes of a popular ballad, one that he knows she _hates_.

She turns on her heel to face him. “None of that maudlin shit. Save it for my funeral,” she says, eyes narrowed at Jaskier.

And then her eyes widen, and Jaskier can tell the very moment she recognises her long-gone brother.

He winks and starts to play.


	2. Calanthe

Calanthe needs a drink. She can feel a headache forming at the back of her skull, and the music has only just started.

Of course, it’s less the music that’s given her the headache, and more the _musician_.

What the hell is _Julian_ doing here?

Well. Well, she knows why he’s here. It’s because she invited him. Because Pavetta had specifically requested the Great Bard Jaskier to play at her wedding banquet, and Calanthe was well aware that her daughter wasn’t exactly happy about the proceedings, and she wanted to do _something_ to make her happy.

She should have known that this Jaskier was Julian. Is this not what spies are for? What’s the point of ruling a country if your spies can’t keep track of the adventures of your dead brother?

Instead of going to get out of her bloodied armour, she walks up to the high table, snatching up the goblet that had been left out waiting for her. Goddess, she needs a _drink_.

In the seat to the left of the one Calanthe will take, Pavetta looks miserable. It’s an expression that has become unfortunately common on her daughter’s face as of late.

Calanthe leans towards her. “Smile, Pavetta. I even got your longed-for _bard_ to come.” She can’t help but almost spit the word bard.

Really. A travelling bard of all things. She knew that Julian had run off to Oxenfurt after he ‘drowned’ in a tragic accident only a few days before he came of age, but she thought he’d be a _scholar_ , or something at least vaguely dignified.

A _bard_?!

Pavetta looks like she wants to reply, because Calanthe is fairly certain that even having her preferred source of music is hardly going to make Pavetta’s eyes stop watering, but she is distracted by shouts behind her.

That lout Craich and another young nobleman, both too far into their cups for so early in the evening, are fighting about some useless nonsense. Honestly, the boy could do to be more like his uncle. Eist is far more level-headed and sensible than his nephew.

Her eyes flick between the boys as she tries to decide whether she can be bothered to put a forceful end to their little spat. And then they catch on a figure leaning on a pillar behind them. He stands out, dressed in dark clothes not really befitting a celebration (and _especially_ not one _here_. This is a castle, he’s in the presence of a _queen_ , what is he _wearing_?), with white hair shining brightly in the candlelight.

Given the bard _Jaskier_ ’s most popular song, which she had had to officially ban the performance of, Calanthe can only assume that this was the famous White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia.

Oh, _this_ could be fun.

The Witcher’s expressions turns immediately discomforted as she points him out and every guest turns to stare at him. Well, it’s just what he deserves for turning up at a banquet he wasn’t technically invited to. And he is the White Wolf, after all. The most famous Witcher on the Continent.

He looks almost like he’s in pain when Calanthe starts grilling him on his oh-so-famous victory over the elves. So does Julian – she’s watching him out of the corner of her eye. This banquet is quickly becoming much more entertaining than she had thought it would be.

He shrugs off the story self-deprecatingly, and Calanthe can’t help but laugh. Of course this particular tale was almost entirely her brother’s invention. So was his whole life.

She invites the Witcher to sit with her at the high table, watching his eyes flicker over to Julian, as if trying to work out a way to refuse. He doesn’t. Smart man.

She goes to get changed out of her armour, and by the time she has returned everyone has shifted, with the White Wolf now pride of place at her right hand. She glances over at the band. Julian is pouting, and it turns into a scowl when he notices her looking. She flashes a smile at him, all teeth.

This is _exactly_ what he deserves for coming back here.

She quickly schools her expression into a complaint about her dress and the general expectations that _men_ have for this type of thing. The Witcher replies, gamely, though his eyes remain fixed on the crowd in front of them.

“Tell me,” she says, “how does a Witcher find himself at my daughter’s wedding feast?” Of course, she already knows the answer. But she’s _very_ interested in seeing his excuse.

“I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds.” It’s enough to startle a laugh out of her: she wasn’t expecting him to be quite so blunt.

“Are there very many of those?” It’s a perfectly innocent question to ask, given what he just said. He still looks at her sideways.

“Well, I’ve already to chase off one who was sure he recognised his arse from jumping out of a window.” Calanthe can’t help the undignified snort that rips itself out of her throat. It catches the attention of most of the table. Pavetta is looking at her as though she’s grown another head. The Witcher is staring at her as if trying to solve a curious puzzle.

Across the room, Julian is still playing, but is staring at her with narrowed eyes. Well, if he didn’t want her to get friendly with his Witcher, he shouldn’t have brought him to her castle. She almost reaches out a hand to drape on Geralt’s arm. That would _really_ wind Julian up.

She doesn’t, though, because she accidentally catches Eist’s eye, and… No. That’s not the reason. Not at all. _Eist_? Ha!

She waves over an attendant and gets them to start the procession of suitors.

She needs to remember that she had a _purpose_ for tonight, and that would _not_ be ruined by Julian showing his face in the castle that is ‘rightfully’ his for the first time in fifteen years.


	3. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is beginning to wonder why he agreed to come to this damned banquet in the first place.

Geralt is beginning to wonder why he agreed to come to this damned banquet in the first place.

Well, no, that’s not strictly true. He’s been wondering why he agreed to come since the moment he agreed to come. In fact, he’s not sure he actually _agreed_ to come in the first place. Jaskier simply asked him to come and then assumed he would.

It’s hard to get the bard to take no for an answer, so Geralt has largely stopped trying.

And Jaskier had called himself Geralt’s friend. His “very best friend in the whole wide world”. No one has ever described Geralt as a friend before.

Geralt had denied it, but it was almost a reflex. Because he isn’t _supposed_ to have friends. It’s too dangerous. _He’s_ too dangerous.

And yet, here he is, dressed up like a sad silk trader – Mousesack had really hit the mark with that description – and sitting at the high table at the court of Cintra.

This is not the life Geralt was made for.

Jaskier, though. Jaskier seems in his element among the riches and the splendour. He definitely seems to know his way around, with a spring in his step and a gleam in his eye and a half-smile lighting up his face.

He looks like he belongs here. Almost like he’s been here before, and knows every beam and brick and flagstone.

Which is a slightly odd thing for Geralt to think. Because Jaskier has never mentioned performing at the court of Cintra, and, given the amount the bard talks, Geralt would have thought it would have come up.

(Geralt remembers everything Jaskier tells him. Not that he would ever admit it.)

And then there’s the fact that Geralt is now sitting at the right hand of Queen Calanthe at her daughter’s wedding feast, while the queen keeps throwing glares in the bard’s direction, paying more attention to him than to the procession suitors that this evening has been arranged for.

Jaskier isn’t even _playing_ right now.

There is definitely something more happening here. Geralt doesn’t like it.

He’s itching to go talk to Jaskier about it, to ask what’s going on, but he can’t do anything. Practically all eyes are on him – it’s a rare occurrence to see a Witcher at a royal court.

He’s become a spectacle. He’s almost certainly stealing Jaskier’s thunder, which he’s sure the bard will complain about later. Geralt just wishes that later could be _now_ , and that they were already back at the inn and out of these stiff, impractical clothes.

Calanthe waves for a pause in the approach of the suitors, and Jaskier jumps up immediately, already strumming his lute.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Calanthe’s eyes harden. The expression reminds Geralt of how Jaskier looks the second before he punches a man in the face for some sleight or other. Geralt had learnt to watch for the expression after a few too many times having to patch up the bard’s knuckles.

Unlike Jaskier, though, Calanthe reacts no further, schooling her expression back to looking bored and in control. Queenly. Instead, she whispers “Oh, Julian, always _have_ to be the centre of attention, don’t you.”

It’s quiet, far too quiet for anyone without Witcher senses to hear, even Pavetta sat close beside her mother.

Who is _Julian_?

“Who’s Julian?” he asks Mousesack, later, when he finally excuses himself to use the privy. There will be still more suitors when he goes back, but, goddess, he really needed a break.

Mousesack frowns at him. “Julian? Where did you hear that?”

Geralt just hums. Given the incredulity in his old friend’s voice, he figures that telling the druid that he heard from the queen, regarding his- _the_ , regarding _the_ bard, probably isn’t the best idea.

Mousesack raises an eyebrow at his non-answer, but humours him anyway. His eyes are narrow, his expression more serious than Geralt remembers ever seeing before “Julian was Calanthe’s younger brother. He died in a boating accident not long after the princess was born. It was a great tragedy, you would do best not to mention him again.”

But, by the end, Geralt’s not really listening. Because that means that Calanthe thinks Jaskier is her long-dead brother. And, whether or not that’s true, it does not bode well for Jaskier’s chances of getting out of this palace tonight unscathed.

Melitele’s tits, this better not be some hare-brained plan of Jaskier’s to seize the throne with only a Witcher to help.

Geralt returns to his seat, his expression as neutral as he can get it. But when the announcer calls up the next suitor, a prince from Nilfgaard, Geralt only has eyes for the prince (perhaps) of Cintra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been... a while  
> I can't promise that I'll update this with any sort of regularity or even, like, soon, but I do have ideas so hopefully it won't be entirely abandoned?
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3


	4. Pavetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not how Pavetta had expected the night to turn out.

This is not how Pavetta had expected the night to turn out. She had thought it would all go exactly as her mother intended it to. Things normally did, after all. The famous Queen Calanthe of Cintra had even had her own brother killed to keep the throne, at least according to some rumours.

Pavetta would not be surprised if that were true.

In any case, her mother had planned every aspect of the evening down to the insults she would throw at every prospective suitor. It was Pavetta’s own betrothal feast, and all she had had a say in was the entertainment.

At least she had had that. She was glad the famous Jaskier had managed to come, when he was normally so busy off adventuring. His songs had always made her feel so light, so free, as though she was out there with him. She had only heard court bards perform his songs before, and she had hoped that seeing him sing in person would make this whole ordeal almost bearable.

It had helped, but only a little. She was still trapped here, unable to make her own choices.

But then, suddenly, her mother’s plan had been upended. Duny, her dear Duny, had had his own plan, courageous and reckless and stupid and sure to get him killed – no wonder he hadn’t told her about it, she would never had allowed him to go through with it, if she had known.

She was so certain, when she saw him, that he was going to die.

And then he didn’t. The Witcher – the White Wolf, Jaskier’s muse who he had invited along as his guest, and who was just as beautiful and terrifying up close as the songs had painted – had jumped over the table to protect him, to protect her Duny.

And then, and then, even though her mother had called a halt to the fighting, there was a knife slipping towards Duny’s throat, and all Pavetta could think was No. No, she was too close, they had come too far. For once in her life, she was going to get to _choose_.

And then, and then, and then.

And then she was on the floor, released from a storm of magic, everyone staring at her in some form of awe or horror. The Witcher had his sword out, Jaskier the bard had his arm protectively around a lady who had come with the petitioning groups, and her mother. Her mother, for once in her life, looked _proud_.

And the Witcher. The Witcher had saved Duny. Had saved _her_. How could she ever repay him?

“Give me what you already have, but do not yet know.”

Pavetta had vomited, as if it were cued, and the knowledge of it meant felt like ice along her spine.

And now, here she is. The guests have all gone, turned heel and fled before Pavetta’s mother could chase them out with her sword. It’s just family left now. Well, sort of. Duny is gently stroking her back, supporting her weight as they sit on the dais where the high table sits. Her mother is pacing back and forward, swearing under her breath about Witchers. Eist, who really is family now, Pavetta supposes, is pulling that face he always does when Calanthe is in the room, like he’s just been struck through the heart by her sword. Even Mousesack is here, and, well, they’ve always treated the Skelligan druid as family, for some reason that Pavetta has never managed to work out.

They should probably _talk_ about things. Except, well, none of them have ever been particularly good at talking. Pavetta can see the rest of the night play out before her eyes: her mother will pace a bit longer before finally losing her temper, turning and shouting at everyone in turn, placing the blame. And then, when she’s finally stopped, she’ll grab Eist by the wrist and pull him up to her rooms, and then they’ll never talk about any of this again.

Apparently, even the after-party fight isn’t going to go as expected.

_Twang_.

Everyone startles a little at the sudden strumming of a lute, turning to face the corner of the room, where Jaskier the bard is, for some reason, still present.

He is staring a little past Pavetta. Pavetta turns to see that he is staring straight at her mother, whose face has turned a shade of red that Pavetta has never seen it before.

“ _You_!” Calanthe shouts, waving a finger at the bard and storming towards him. Pavetta’s skirts rustle in her wake.

Pavetta pushes herself up to follow. She’s, well, intrigued. By the fact that the bard is still here, and by the fact that _he_ , and not Pavetta, is the one her mother has decided to blame.

“This is _your_ fault, _Julian_. You and your goddess-be-damned _Witcher_.”

Pavetta has seen fully armoured knights piss themselves at less. The bard seems unphased, somehow. Maybe because he’s used to travelling with a Witcher?

“ _My_ fault?” One of his eyebrows is raised higher than the other, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Calanthe. Honestly. Who was it that tried to have their daughter’s lover killed, not once, but _twice_?”

Pavetta blinks. Blinks again. She has never heard anyone dare to talk to her mother like that before. Even her father, what little she remembered of him, had always been deferential. Eist would occasionally tease, when he thought no-one was nearby, but to speak in direct defiance?

The bard is going to die.

There is a pause, where everyone expects Calanthe to grab the sword from Eist’s sheath and swing it at the defenceless musician. To Pavetta’s surprise, though, it ends up being Eist himself who places it’s point about a handspan from the bard’s throat.

“How dare you speak to the Queen that way?”

“Awww,” says Jaskier, his head tilting slightly to the side, “you’re cute.” He turns all his attention to Pavetta’s mother, completely ignoring the sword. “He’s very cute, Calanthe, I see why you keep him around. You should have married him the first time around, I told you so, but _no_ , ‘it’s far more important to make an alliance with Ebbing’, you said. Then, again, Roegner wasn’t so bad. And I suppose, without him we wouldn’t have Pavetta here. It’s so lovely to see you, Pavetta, sweetheart, it’s been far too long.”

He’s grinning at her now, having finally stopped to breathe. His eyes twinkle a bright blue that she’s only ever seen before in her dreams.

A glance to the side shows Eist’s sword wavering as her mother simply pinches the bridge of her nose. Not angry. Exasperated. As if she’s had to put up with this before, and frequently.

And then it hits her. Her mother called him _Julian_.

Julian. Her mother’s younger brother, who drowned.

Jaskier, the Witcher’s bard, is somehow Pavetta’s dead uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter? But at least now we can get on with Jaskier interacting with the family!! Very exciting (for me at least, even if no-one else reads this XD)


	5. Eist

There’s a bard. There’s a bard, and he’s _still_ here even after the guests have been shooed off and it’s only family allowed. There’s a bard and he’s talking to Calanthe – the _queen_ , Eist’s _betroth_ _ed_ (his _betrothed_ , holy Melitele, he’d never thought he’d see the day except for in his dreams) – as though he _knows_ her, as if his behaviour is in any way acceptable for the hired entertainment.

And then, when Eist has his sword at the bard’s throat, he shows no fear – probably a side effect of spending all his time with a Witcher, the _Butcher_ – and Calanthe (his _betrothed_ , he’s finally going to get to marry this stunning woman he has admired for so long) is just sighing and looking at him _without_ the usual murder in her eyes, and Eist is so confused.

Pavetta gasps, suddenly, a hand to her mouth, her eyes darting between her mother (Eist’s _betrothed_ ) and the bard, as if an explanation is coming together for her. Eist tries to see what she is seeing, lowering his sword slowly – he’ll keep it ready, of course, but it doesn’t seem like Calanthe wants the bard dead _yet_.

Now that the pair of them are standing so close together, it’s hard not to notice that there’s _something_. A cock of an eyebrow. The shape of the nose. The shade of their hair.

It doesn’t make sense, though.

There’s a spring in his step, but he’s still _far_ too old to be an illegitimate son. There were no cousins on either side; Calanthe had kept her throne by some very public wars and executions. And, most famously, Calanthe no longer had a brother.

Eist remembers hearing about his death. Calanthe could have had no part in it personally, it was so soon after Pavetta was born, but the rumours had abounded that she had had it organised. And, well, Eist knows Calanthe (his betrothed!). He has known her for a long time, since before Julian’s death. He knows there was little love between them. He knows that she was desperate to keep the throne, would do _anything_. And he knows that the _timing_ – right before Julian reached his majority and should have acceded, right after the birth of Calanthe’s heir, when she was still in her confinement and could reasonably argue that she couldn’t _possibly_ have anything to do with it – was too good to be true.

So there was no-one the bard _could_ be; the fact that he looked like Calanthe must be a coincidence. The fact that he was acting so familiar was a simple rudeness on his part.

The fact that Calanthe was acting so familiar herself was… less easy to understand. But, well, his betrothed (!) has always been something of an enigma. Maybe she’s just a little overwhelmed from the chaos of the day.

He looked at the rest of the small group who had remained. Pavetta’s new husband, Lord Urcheon, looks back at him with confusion written across his face. Eist feels a stab of sympathy for the man. He’s had a long day, and now he’s being launched into the craziness that is the Cintran royal family.

He turns to Mousesack, expecting to find a similar confusion, but the druid is staring straight at the bard as though he has seen a ghost.

A glance back to the bard shows that he is now grinning at Mousesack. As Eist watches, he loosely bows. “Do you still feel like you know me from somewhere?” There is a teasing smile playing at his lips.

Eist thinks he looks far too comfortable.

Mousesack bows deeper in reply. “I apologise, my lord. It is often difficult to recognises faces that appear where they’re not supposed to be.”

The bard bursts out laughing. “Why, my old friend, I was invited!”

Calanthe rolls her eyes at that. “You certainly _wouldn’t_ have been if I’d known the ‘great’ bard Jaskier was just you with a lute.”

The bard gasps dramatically, a hand to his heart. “ _Rude_ , sister dearest, I’ll have you know that the lute is an important part of who I am!”

Eist blinks. Sister? But Prince Julian was dead? Unless… Unless he wasn’t dead? But why wouldn’t he be dead? More like – why would he be alive and wandering around the continent as a bard, when he could be a _king_?

The bard – Jaskier, Julian? – is watching his confusion. He smiles at him. “Are you alright there, Jarl Eist?” he asks, and his tone, which could easily have been the biting sarcasm he had just whipped at Mousesack or Calanthe, is closer to _kind_. It is a tone that Eist has never heard from Calanthe, or from any monarch in any court he has visited.

That in itself is almost a complete explanation of _why_.

He would have been eaten alive.

The realisation must be written on his face, because Julian – or, perhaps he prefers Jaskier, now? Eist will have to ask him – grins, his face brightening.

“I’m glad we understand each-other. Now, I’m afraid I need to borrow your betrothed –” he turns his smile to Calanthe, raising an eyebrow at her. Calanthe scowls in return, but Eist is well used to reading those, and it lacks any heat. “– to discuss some important business. I hope I shall be able to see you all again before I leave.”

He bows, and holds out an arm to Calanthe. She takes it, rolling her eyes. But Eist _knows_ her. She is not as fed up with Julian as she is pretending to be. Perhaps she even missed him, just a little.

(Not that Eist would ever tell her his suspicions. He loves her, he truly does, but she is not called the lioness of Cintra for nothing).

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think: give a kudos or comment, or find me on tumblr at [thebansacredbanned](https://thebansacredbanned.tumblr.com/)


End file.
